Broken
by Aimless Traveler
Summary: A three-part episode tag to 5.04, through the lenses of Dean from the past, Castiel in the present, and the decisions that shape the future. Sort of an AU, that fits in with my 'Six Dawns' series.
1. Past

_A/N: That last episode got such an emotional response out of me that not doing anything about it was impossible. This is the first out of three introspective pieces that will parallel to specific scenes in 5.04 and fits into the alternate universe I've created with my "Six Dawns" series. Enjoy! _

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

It was neither hard to articulate nor was it a particularly difficult concept to understand and it matter whether it was five years into the future or five hundred, there was one thing- the only thing, it seemed- that hadn't changed was the truism that in order to live, to _survive_, one had to follow protocol.

Everything in the world existed and perpetuated its own existence based on a set of procedures. Whether it be the rules of gravity making sure that the roots of plant life and vegetation extended downwards into the Earth or those that regulated the firing of neurons in a man's brain, there was nothing that could extend beyond its natural boundaries, nothing that could break the rules surrounding and safeguarding its being without suffering some type of detrimental effect.

Man was no different.

In fact, it seemed like being the highest thinking and most complex of all the creations put on God's green Earth, humans were the ones with the most rules: those he made to guard others, those he imposed upon himself for the sake of guarding others; the moral, the social, the political and practical- it was a complex cycle of interwoven dictations and loopholes that sought to define the world, and oftentimes to no avail. A man could (and often did) go throughout his entire life without knowing all the rules and which ones to adhere to, which ones he could ignore and which ones he was not to deviate from at all costs. Civilizations rose and fell, man lost his sense of reason and killed his own brother, dynasties crumbled into the dust; their names little more than scribbles in a history book and in the end, the only real tragedy was that with the proper knowledge, such calamity could've easily been avoided.

Dean Winchester was by no means a genius, and it the image of the hunter strolling across a stage wearing a hideous robe and hat to accept a rolled up sheet of paper was indeed laughable for exactly that reason. Sure, he'd gotten his GED but he hadn't ever given higher education a second thought, because right from the beginning, Dean knew that the rules of life were simple, and everything he needed to know in order to survive, he could learn from his father; the same salt and burn routines and silver bullet, sawed-off shotgun models he observed even up to this very day, the rules of being a hunter, a man, a survivor. Because for Dean, all three of those roles were one and the same.

All supernatural entities had their own boundaries as well, ones that Dean knew by heart. Sure, he couldn't tell you the different articles of the Constitution (and it wasn't like any other American out there really could anyway) or explain how blood flowed through the aortas and pulmonary veins into the heart's four chambers, but he could spit out Latin exorcisms faster than cheerleaders rattling off a cheer and land a bullet in a werewolf's heart from twenty meters away. He was quick on his feet and smart when and where it counted; he knew all the rules of the game and bended them as far as they would go, just for the sake of knowing that he could.

And the angels? Dean hadn't really been expecting much from God's warriors of wrath and holy power, so he'd expected the dickery and the deceit. The whole deal with the apocalypse, though? Well, that... _that_ had thrown him for a little loop. But of course the elder Winchester hadn't expected to find an ally in the entire bunch either, and the next thing he knew, he was finding himself seeking approval, calling out for aid, and offering protection to one supposedly heartless bastard in particular with sapphire orbs that held all the hope and faith that a real angel was supposed to embody.

He really didn't know when he started thinking of Castiel as _his_ angel or as more than the holy tax accountant that popped in sporadically to utter monotonous orders, but Dean did know that he sure as hell didn't want to go back to the time before he had the blue-eyed, head-tilting, stick up his ass angel on his side, before the hunter had a brand on his arm as evidence of Castiel's presence and deeds. Before the angel decided to grow a pair and full on rebelled against Heaven, going against everything that had been drilled into his skull after countless millennia of Bible Camp; thereby earning Dean's trust and making the elder Winchester not more than a little proud, too.

But now, looking into eyes that seemed hollow and empty; now, hearing that bitter little laugh that made the one uttering it seem on the verge of hysterical tears and so _totally_ broke the rules of what the hunter knew about angels (because there were two things about those feather-brained bastards that he knew for certain- one, they were downright allergic to straight answers and two, they obviously didn't have the brain capacity for sarcasm or humor), all Dean could do was stare in horrified shock as the question fell numbly from his lips.

"What happened to you?"

The man standing before him shrugged, unshaven face pinched and pale, features haggard and listless. "Life," was the simple reply, as if that alone could surmise all that had taken the soldier of the Lord and turned him into a stoned, washed up Buddist; that had reduced Castiel to a mere shadow of his former self. Never mind the fact that just a week ago, the Cas he knew had been scared shitless at the thought of getting it on with a girl and was now hosting group orgies (five years in the future but regardless), never mind the glazed quality of his faded blue eyes that clearly pointed to drug use; none of that mattered when the elder Winchester found himself staring at a shell of the earnest, faithful angel he once knew.

And it was in that instant that Dean Winchester wished that some rules had never been broken, that he'd never tried testing the boundaries in the first place; that he hadn't pushed until the angel saw the truth, until Castiel decided to break the rules himself, because maybe that would have been enough to prevent all this, to prevent the Apocalypse.

Maybe then he wouldn't have ever had to see Castiel so broken himself.

* * *

"So, that's it. That's _the_ Colt."

Reesa's voice was a mixture of disbelief and muted condescension, her posture indignant as she leaned against the ladder, glancing at said gun with no small amount of distaste. Dean had a feeling that given another time and another place (funny, given that this situation fulfilled those parameters perfectly) he would've had some type of connection with the smart, tough-as-nails woman, but his attention was focused elsewhere, namely on Castiel as the other sat down with a beer and propped up his feet in a manner so casual that it only carved the lines etched into Dean's brow all the deeper. The Cas he knew would've been standing at attention, eyes narrowed in quiet alertness and-

"If anything can kill Lucifer, this is it."

Dean heaved a mental sigh, grumbling to himself at the awkwardness of hearing his own voice giving response. Of course this doppelganger standing not ten feet away was in fact the real him in 2014, but that didn't make it any less weird. _Not to mention the fact that this guy is more of a dick than I could be, even on those days when everything seems like the shit's about to hit the-_

"Great," Reesa said sharply, in tones that made it evident in no uncertain terms that she was in fact less than impressed. "Do we have anything that can _find_ Lucifer?"

Apparently growing five years older hadn't completely dulled his senses to humanity, because future him looked up at the woman with a frown. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, we were in...Jane's cabin last night," Dean broke in, saving all of them from what would've been the very heated tirade of a woman scorned. "And apparently, we (_I'm going to be needing so much therapy after this_) and Reesa have...ah...'connection'."

If the scene was from a bad sitcom, the laugh track would've been rolling but given that this was reality, the only one who seemed to find the situation amusing was Castiel, who bowed his head and grinned in a way that didn't meet his bloodshot eyes. Reesa quirked her brow and looked to her apparently not-so-connected superior while future him had the grace to look a slight bit uncomfortable, but not before turning to him and growling out an embarrassed, "You wanna shut up?"

Raising his hands in surrender, Dean settled for looking away from his future self and his spitfire of a jilted lover, away from his broken down angel with the maniacal smiles that sent a shiver up the hunter's spine, half-listening to the conversation when-

"Our fearless leader, I'm afraid, is all too well schooled in the _art_ of getting to the truth." Blue eyes flickered over in his direction to catch his attention and Dean's back straightened as if in immediate response to the barest hints of sadness he heard imbedded somewhere in beneath the matter of fact tone. _You've got to be shitting me._

"Torture?" he queried, spitting the word out like the syllables were acidic in his mouth. Slowly, Dean got to his feet, approaching this future version of himself who was making decisions he would've never made in a million years, who was shooting people in the head at point blank range without batting an eyelid, who was sitting here and talking about killing Lucifer while not giving a rat's ass about anything else. _Or anyone._ "Oh that's...that's good."

His future self's eyes lifted to meet with his own in a glare and it wasn't like looking into a mirror at all, because there was a coldness there that Dean had never seen before in any of his reflections and it made his flesh crawl. To cover it up, he made a joke out of the uncomfortable revelation, snarking at himself, at this future self who was more of a dick than he ever imagined he could become. "Classy."

Castiel chuckled then, a quiet laugh that drew Dean's gaze toward the blue eyes that, for a moment, seemed more lucid, more alive, more like the Cas he knew; the Cas that once chuckled at a stupid joke he'd made while sitting on a park bench (when there still used to _be_ park benches)-but there was weariness in the semi-amused grin, deep-rooted pain behind the haze created by drugs and alcohol and something empty. It was the emptiness that struck at Dean the deepest. _Cas...what have these five years done to you? _He glared at his future self. _What has he done to you?_

"What?" Castiel said nonchalantly, both a question and an explanation to the glare he was receiving from the future Dean. "I like past you."

_Yeah? I like past you too, Cas._

Future Dean did little more than send a scowl his way, the scathing glare that Dean realized as his own 'who the fuck do you think you are' glower reserved usually only for demons, amped up about five hundred times, before slamming a map down on the tabletop in a way of changing the topic and jabbing his finger at a spot circled in red. "Lucifer's here, now. I know the block; I know the building."

Reesa immediately abandoned her defiant post against the ladder and went to inspect the map with interest while Castiel merely sat up and spared the piece of paper a despondent glance. "Oh, good. It's right in the middle of a hot zone."

"Crawling with Croats, yeah." Future Dean affirmed readily, raising his head to pin the other with a challenging look. "You saying my plan is reckless?"

As he observed his future self and Castiel bickered back and forth, Dean felt his shoulders squaring, his back straightening, his entire posture becoming stiff and defensive for no apparent reason. The exchange was quick and sharp, intelligent, but with no deeper understanding behind the jabs. They were the furthest thing from friendly, sorely reminding Dean of the way John and Sam used to snap at each other right before the youngest Winchester turned his back on his childhood and left to lead a 'normal' life. It was a general ordering his subordinate, Zachariah demanding Castiel's respect and Dean couldn't believe it was him speaking that way but it _was_, and he had to put an end to it, right the hell _now_.

"But you'll have backup, right?"

Both of them turned to him and Dean found himself pinned with two stares, one steely emerald and the other an inquiring sapphire. He continued, unsure if anything he said would make any difference, but spoke up anyway just for the sake of having something to do. "I mean...the angels- they need me...us," he frowned at the irregular pronoun use but plowed on regardless. "So are we gonna have Gabriel or someone-"

"Yeah, we'll have backup," his future self interrupted brusquely, something that wasn't quite fire and wasn't quite ice flashing in his hard eyes. "'Cause you're coming too." The gaze flickered over to Castiel, softening for a sparse, near imperceptible moment and Dean looked too, taken aback at the shadows overcasting the blue eyes, at the silence with which Castiel got to his feet and slipped out the door, and suddenly Dean was struck with the queasy gut feeling of having done something incredibly idiotic.

"What was that?" He asked once Reesa too had left, making his future self glance up from the Colt.

"You're coming because I want to you to see something," came the reply, but Dean waved away the answer that seemed to be more of a red herring than anything else.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." He stepped closer, seeing the muscle working in his future self's jaw, a sure sign of reluctance and guilt. "Where the hell are the angels? The world looks like it's in the crapper and why haven't those dicks shown up yet?"

_BANG._

The other dropped the Colt and more or less brought his fists down on the table, jaw clenched and brows drawn tight over a dark stare and it wasn't one Dean recognized and he had the sudden, insane urge to laugh at the irony of seeing a foreign expression on his own face. "Listen to me," was the growl. "You don't talk about the angels, got it? Least of all Gabriel."

"Why?" He shot back immediately, because two could play the game, but the answer that pierced the air in return had an effect that very few could ever boast of making- rendering Dean Winchester at a loss for words.

"Because Gabriel's been dead for two years."

_A/N: Next chapter is going to be in Castiel's point of view and expect an appearance from Gabriel and Belial. Until then, please review!_

_For those of you waiting for the last chapter of 'Brotherly Discord', rest assured that I have not abandoned the story. I finally got my laptop back but the hard drive was completely fried, forcing me to redraft and retype the entire chapter. After the last chapter there will be a short epilogue; it's the least I can put out there as a conciliatory offering. It'll be coming out soon (in less than ten days, and I'm pretty sure my laptop won't die again, so hold me to my word this time!)_


	2. Present

_A/N: Thank you for all the reviews! I knew I wasn't the only one who wanted to see more come out of this episode without all the fabricated undertones of slash. Enjoy the chapter!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

They stood out as they lay in the palm of his hand, almost glowing against the orange of the prescription bottle; whiteness against the darkness of the curve of his hand and the black of night that covered the entire refugee camp like a shroud. He cupped the little capsules and shook them gently, listening to the slight rattle as they collided against each other in the darkness of the temporary cave of his fingers, bleached surfaces seeping through the cracks between each digit, mirroring the shadow that descended upon everything nowadays, even in the daytime.

"_What are you, stoned?" _

"_Generally, yeah." _

Castiel opened his hand and pushed the tablets around with a finger on his other hand, absent-mindedly watching as they slid into the grooves of recently healed lacerations, over the puckered tissue of faded scars and the layers of hardened tissue from the calluses of fingers accustomed to the familiar grip around the handle of a gun. _One, two, three…_ He tilted his head and squinted slightly, pushing his hand and its cupped contents closer to the cheap, artificial light seeping out of the closest ragtag shack. _Four, five, six…seven._

Seven was the fourth prime number in the construction of mathematics, the neutral pH value between acidity and alkalinity, the number of perfection, the number of completion. _One must forgive seventy times seven._ He tilted his head backwards, faded blue gaze searching amongst the stars for a presence that he would never again detect, for something that was now lost to him forever.

The number also held connotations in _shiva_, the Hebrew seven-day period of mourning for the dead. The blue eyes slammed shut, wiping the stars from view and replacing them with darkness. A lump rose in his throat and Castiel slammed the first two into his mouth, jaw working furiously as the tablets divided and crumbled into powder between his molars.

* * *

_Angel and demon were locked in fierce combat, estranged brother against brother as both beings grappled for victory on the battlefield already strewn with casualties from both sides- the blackened ash of smoldered wings against the green of grass, the red of blood that flowed from severed arteries and shattered human bodies to seep deep into the roots of the field, painting the landscape the hues of tragedy that would not be soon forgotten. The stench of gunpowder filled the air; screams and growls sounded out alike as the battle waged on, savage and unyielding._

_Out of those that had already fallen, it was difficult to tell which side was gaining or even holding their ground. The lines of defense were broken, fragmented and scattered beyond recognition but the savior of mankind still stood firm, hollering himself hoarse as he emptied countless clips into the horde of demons wearing flesh that looked so much like his own- _

_Dean screamed incoherently, spraying randomly into the advancing legions. Beside him, Castiel was whipping out his angel-fu and going all high and smitey on any demon that dared come near, sapphire eyes piercing through the haze of smoke from gun and flame, uttering exorcisms and an endless stream of Latin litanies and prayers, voice rising and lowering at different intervals. The two stood neither with the angels nor with the demons but alone in the midst of all the destruction, almost shoulder to shoulder and never was there a truer image of 'brothers in arms' than of the supposed vessel of Heaven's Champion and his angel, the one who had rebelled against his brethren. _

_From across the fields of mayhem and slaughter the Lord's messenger drew away from the ring of corpses around his form, unfurling his wings and making the demons cower away from his frame composed of glory and sanctified flame. Gabriel's silver gaze caught sight of Dean Winchester and his comrade in battle, feeling an odd sense of pride that for once was not for the honor and glory of the Almighty. The warmth the archangel felt was for his younger brother; a small measure of satisfaction for the ease with which Castiel sent Lucifer's followers back into the depths of the Pit, pride for the lesser angel as he fought exactly the way Gabriel had taught him. _

_Castiel felt the archangel's eyes upon him and knew the weight of the probing stare; he lifted his head and caught the favor in his elder brother's gaze, saw the barely perceptible approval for standing by Dean despite the circumstances, for loyally holding his ground next to his charge, the one who bore his mark. Gabriel was the only one who had stood by the lesser angel in his decision- not because he felt that the elder Winchester was right in his foolish attempts to slay he who had once been the brightest and most powerful of their kin, but because the archangel loved his younger brother enough to want for Castiel to choose his own path; a path that led on a search for their missing Father, even if it did lead away from Heaven. A twitch caught at the corner of his mouth but the next instant, the beginnings of the smile of gratitude faded away and his eyes snapped wide with horror. _

"_GABRIEL!" _

_Dean dropped his gun at the wild howl that escaped the mouth of the angel standing next to him, not knowing that Castiel- ever calm, always patient, ever level-headed Castiel- was capable of uttering such a scream of terror, the cry of a wounded animal. The hunter's first, terrified thought was that one of those sons of bitches had actually succeeded in harming Castiel in some way (and oh boy, was he going to gut the bastard who did it) but when he looked over and saw that the angel had no visible injuries, he turned to see what the source of the distress was…and his own jaw went slack. _

"_You have no idea how __**long**__ I've wanted to do this, old sport," Belial hissed in his former brother's ear, wrenching his black sword mercilessly out of where the hellfire-forged blade had been stuck into Gabriel's arched back and up through the archangel's chest. Hell's mighty prince and Lucifer's second in command reached out, grasping one magnificent wing despite the way it scorched his vessel's skin and flesh, wrenching and hacking at the base of the appendage with macabre delight. "Guess this makes us about even, no?" _

_Pure white brilliance exploded across the landscape, scorching the corneas of every being bearing witness to life and breath and light leaving the messenger of the Lord. As Gabriel's form was thrown to the ground like a rag doll, the earth split open and from its core emitted a bellow as if creation itself was roaring out in protest as the triumphant demon held up his trophies with a flourish- but it was nothing compared to Castiel who was screaming out his rage, his sorrow, his disbelief. _

_The hunter found himself more or less crash-tackling and trying to hold onto the other with all his might but Dean's muscles were singing their protest, his joints were popping because talk was of course easier than action and nothing was easy about holding an angel back, now more than ever. Castiel's limbs were shaking; the angel's knees buckled and then he was no longer fighting. Something was building up in the cavern of his chest, scraping raw against his ribs and it tore from his throat in one long mournful wail-_

"_BROTHER!"_

_It was the last word he said for seven months.

* * *

_

"Castiel?"

He turned, focusing on the approaching figure and the corners of his lips twitched upwards mechanically, artificially in greeting as soon as he saw the high cheekbones and dark hair, the confident stride and the concern flashing across the comely features. The gesture came about more from the thought running through his mind than the actual recognition of the woman (although these days it was somewhat of a wonder if he managed to recognize his own reflection, so perhaps being able to identify someone else was an accomplishment to smile about).

"_And apparently we and…Reesa have, ah…connection." _

"Hello, Reesa." He leaned his head against the side of the cabin and waited in the silence that fell as the woman pondered what to say next; as he felt her probing, searching stare. Reesa was a smart woman and so he didn't bother trying to hide the white tablets in his fist and besides, what was the point? _What's the point of anything these days?_

"You want some water to go with those pills?"

Castiel ducked his head with a chuckle, finding the somewhat chiding question a little funnier than any normal person in his right mind would have. But then again, a junkie ex-angel wasn't exactly the Merriman-Webster denotation of normal, was it? And a relatively coherent sense of consciousness was what he was trying to get from anyway, so…_well, it fits, doesn't it? And Reesa has connection with our fearless leader, so she fits with him…and we plug the Croats and torture demons, but who's the 'we' and…and what am I? _What, indeed? Not a soldier, not a dick with wings, and even their fearless leader had given up trying to label him.

That is, when their fearless leader even bothered speaking to him. He laughed dryly, mirthlessly because the real reason he'd known the elder Winchester from the past to be different from their general was because of the words he'd heard in a voice that wasn't cold or hard, wasn't empty like the gaping hole in the middle of his chest where Castiel once thought he had his grace.

"_Hey Cas, we've gotta-"_

The months and years blended and shifted into each other and melted fluidly, disappearing in a haze of amphetamines and Jack Daniels and moonshine and…how long had it been since Dean called him by name? Called him _Cas_? _Probably as long as he's been and since he's become our fearless leader. _Ah, and speaking of their fearless leader…

"He wants us to be loaded up and on the road by midnight," Reesa said cautiously, hesitantly as he popped three pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry, welcoming the painful scrape and the burn because at least it was _something_ that he could feel nowadays.

"Alrighty." Castiel answered, slumping against the solid wall at his back, eyes still directed upwards and waiting until the other's footsteps had faded away to close his eyes in seeking the emptiness that opened up his mind and soul to swallow up the memories.

* * *

_Three weeks after the battle, after Gabriel's death, and after the demons delighted themselves with ripping apart the archangel's enormous wings, the angels left._

_Without pomp or circumstance, without fanfare or farewell, the warriors of Heaven packed up and left the crapper of a planet that they'd managed to twist into even a more terrible shithole, without leaving behind nary as much as a feather or even a goodbye to the humans they'd royally screwed over and resigned to the mercy of Lucifer. They took with them all their aid and assistance, all their angel radio and fancy equipment, and all their mojo too._

_Every. Last. Bit._

_Dean had been standing over a table with Yager and Bratley, marking out possible locations of where the demons might attack next. The President was apparently too busy hunting moose or trying to take pictures of Russia from her house or some other useless shit but they had no time for red tape and bureaucrats; he had a gut feeling that the demons were gearing up to catch a big fish this time around, and he wanted to be ready to make another stand. _

_Reesa had been in the room as well, in the process of turning away from the outspread map to reach for a drink of water- which was probably why she'd seen the angel at all. He'd appeared silently, noiselessly (and who knew how long he'd been standing there); but when the mug Ressa had been holding crashed to the floor from her slack fingers, everyone looked up at where her eyes were fixed, at the figure standing in the doorway. _

_Castiel was leaning against the doorjamb, looking aimless and not entirely sure of the rhyme or reason of the who or where or why of the situation. Some of the others stood halfway, flicking unsure glances between their leader and the angel because they weren't sure what was going on or what to do, but Dean had only to take one look at the other to know exactly what the fuck had happened. _

_The word got around to him later that the small group that had gone out to search for more nonperishables and canned goods for the camp had run into a gang of demons and come out a little worse for the wear. Castiel had gone along with them because while he still wasn't speaking, he was still useful in the sense that demons took one look at him and turned tail to scamper back to daddy Lucifer, right?_

_No one could have predicted what happened next and the sole survivor had dragged himself back to camp- ragged clothing, broken bones, open wounds and all- but that wasn't the worst part of it, Dean realized. As soon as he saw the torn trench coat that apparently hadn't been to the angel dry cleaners, at the bruise spanning the entire length of Castiel's left side, making his ribs blossom sickening shades of purple and blue; as soon as he saw that the deep laceration nearly splitting the other's forehead open WASN'T healing, he knew. _

_Dean knew what had to be done, for although he was no nurse, he knew enough about twitchy trauma survivors to write an entire manual on how to deal with PTSD. The group had been dispatched to the innermost blocks of the city, and by some strength that was obviously considerably less than what the angel had once possessed, Castiel managed to escape the demons and make it back to camp, make it back through camp and right to his door. He should have gone to make sure Cas was alright, to bandage the other's countless wounds and to ease the pain and harsh reality of having been dumped from angel status to being one of them the best he could. _

_But he didn't. Because three weeks after the battle in which Gabriel died, three weeks after Castiel lost his brother, Dean lost his. _

_So he'd handed the dazed, temporarily mute individual off to the medics, ordered someone to give the ex-angel clean clothes that fit and pressed a bottle of Vicodin into Castiel's hand before turning his attention back to focusing on hunting demons, on saving the world, on hunting Lucifer. _

_Three weeks after the angels left, the one who bore his handprint gave Castiel his first painkillers. And as angel became man, Dean Winchester became a 'fearless leader' and somehow, Castiel couldn't find it within himself to really care anymore.

* * *

_

Castiel kept his foot on the accelerator and his hands on the steering wheel, sneaking a side glance at the man sitting in the passenger's seat of the truck and tried not to laugh at the irony. Five years ago, their positions would've been reversed because there was no way Dean would've let him drive his beloved Impala- that as of right now was sitting up on cinder blocks and junked out beyond repair. _Oh, funny how the time flies._

This was not a fearless leader of the last resistance on Earth or the general of the remnants of humankind. This was not a man who would willingly lie, murder, and betray just to fulfill his goal of putting a bullet in his brother's head- never mind that his little brother was now little more than a suit for the greatest evil ever to exist.

Sometimes, Castiel wanted to check _that_ man's left bicep just to make sure that it was still there- the patch of nerveless dead skin in the shape of a handprint- to make sure yes, this was the same soul he'd pulled from the bowels of Hell long ago. _Yeah, definitely can't strap on my wings and do anything like that now._ And sometimes Castiel thought that maybe he should cut back on the booze and drugs, because at times he wasn't sure if he was still on Earth or back in the Pit where this man with Dean Winchester's cold and darkened soul killed without mercy or second thought- but then again, Hell was on Earth, so what was the difference?

But this man sitting next to him, this man who'd come from a time when the world actually existed; this, _this_ was Dean Winchester. This was the soul Castiel had come to place his trust and faith in, this was the soul of the man who would defy Heaven itself for the sake of saving people, because he _cared_. Because he loved even those he did not know and showed compassion and mercy unparalleled by any other human Castiel had ever watched over. This was the Dean who had taught him to hope, whom he followed when he could not find God, who helped him when no one else would. This man's soul was pure and beautiful in its imperfection, wonderful in its flawed humanity and Castiel felt as though he might weep because this, _this_ was the Dean he remembered-

This was the Dean he abandoned and lost everything for, _this_ was Dean Winchester.

…But of course he wouldn't weep and so he laughed instead, the hollow notes ringing out bitterly without any measure of mirth or hilarity.

"Cas," Dean said quietly and then paused, unsure of how to continue.

Castiel knew that Dean wanted him to stop, but he couldn't lest the moisture welling up in his eyes and the lump forming in his throat win over the façade of blankness that he'd learned to build up over the past five years. So for his part, Castiel merely threw his head back and swallowed the two remaining pills left clenched in his fist, letting the unclear quality they produced between focus and haziness sweep over him, feeling them smooth out the ragged edges of the emptiness that too much loss and sin had carved out of his soul.

_A/N: Oh geez, I am really going to fail my sociology midterm tomorrow morning. Oh well, this chapter wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. Please drop a review! _


	3. Future

_A/N: Thank you for all your well wishes and reviews! One thing though- I was utterly shocked at the poor grammar of the last chapter when I reread it, so I've fixed a few things and reuploaded the chapter. _

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

The signs were always there, sometimes as plain as day while others were not so obvious- looking down and to the left, shifting eyes, sweaty palms, or smiles that lasted longer than natural. They were the indications of a man trying to tell his boss exactly why he lost the contract or of a boy gathering up the nerve to approach the girl who was clearly out of his league, but also the sure signs of a liar. It took one to know one though, and Dean had done his fair share of whipping out fake badges and IDs to spot any small ounce of mistrust (well, that was before a certain someone dropped in with expressions about as readable as a brick wall with a pair of piercing blue eyes, but he didn't count) and there was no face Dean knew better than his own.

"They'll never see us coming."

Which was why he knew the future version of himself was, at this moment, full of shit. _Something's not right._ Dean watched his doppelganger closely, noting the muscle that jumped in his tightly clenched jaw, at the near-imperceptible lower timbre of his voice, of how he readjusted his grip on the handle of the semi-automatic.

"Trust me."

Dean's eyes narrowed. _Oh, yeah. Definitely lying._ His eyes flickered over to Castiel, whose eyes were fixed on the dirt between them because while Reesa had been the one to voice a doubtful inquiry, Dean could tell that Castiel knew something was up. Angel or not, Cas _always_ knew.

Sure enough, the bleary blue gaze slid upwards to meet his and once again Dean seriously felt like grabbing himself (the _other_ himself, that is) and decking the guy a good one, or at least until the heartless dick came to his senses- if he still had them, that is. He wanted to make the cold bastard _see_ what had happened as a result of his actions, to make him feel the same meathooks of guilt that tore at Dean's conscience whenever he laid eyes on this future version of the angel he once knew and turned him into a hippie Buddhist who popped pills like candy and had freakin' orgies-

The thought made Dean's throat close like an asthmatic at Ground Zero as Castiel looked away, mechanically sliding the magazine into the .45 that still looked so wrong in his hands because Dean came from a time and place when Cas still had his wings and could angel-whammy demons and all sorts of nasties back to whatever sludge hole they crawled out of with two fingers. And now it was the resignation, the apathy, and the utter lack of anything and everything in the ex-angel's haggard features that made Dean lean forwards, words out of his mouth before he could reconsider.

"Hey, you." His future self glanced up at him and Dean glared. _Yeah, you._ There was no way he was going to call the other 'me' or 'Dean'. "We need to talk." 'Cause sure, his future self could rag on him about not reconciling with Sam or giving the bird to the angels and more or less making Michael and his frat brothers take the walk of shame after refusing to give himself over as a condom. But at least Dean knew that the blurred and faded fucking _shattered_ pieces of this gaze that held his own at this very instant wasn't because of anything **he** had done.

_Or at least not yet. _

"Tell me what's going on." And maybe this was what those poor bastards in white padded rooms experienced with the whole multiple personality disorder or whatnot, because Dean could definitely feel a tiny bit of his brain melting at this whole time warp thing and in trying to figure out how to make sure that things never came to this. "I know you," he snapped. "You're lying to these people; lying to me."

And yet how exactly did one lie to oneself? Dean smirked bitterly as his future self looked him up and down with the same scrutinizing look he'd often given many a smartass back in his day- back in the past where he belonged, in good old '09 before all of this…whatever this mess was.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. You see, I know you're lying expressions." The all too quick quirk of the brow, the fractional squint of the left eye- hell, he'd gotten them down years ago when standing in front of Ms. so and so after staying up looking after Sammy and having to convince her that yes ma'am, the dog ate my homework. Yes ma'am, again. Well 'cause you see, it was a real big dog (_werewolf_)- "I've seen them in the mirror." _I've freakin' perfected them. _"Now there's something you're not telling us."

Future him scoffed, but it was tinged with a bit of unease. "I don't know what you're talking about-"

"Oh really?" Dean bit out, now thoroughly done with the mind games. "Well I don't seem to be the only one in your posse with some questions-" The only being who could boast of knowing Dean better than himself was here too, and his future self's eyes flickered over to said individual who was currently gazing despondently up at the second story of the sanitarium as if he knew whatever underhanded deal was going on in their fearless leader's mind. And Dean knew Castiel knew; Castiel, who had dragged his soul out of Hell itself and pieced back together the scattered fragments with his mojo and admirable (if blind) unwavering faith in his Father, with his inability to understand sarcasm and the stupid way he tilted his head like a damn cocker spaniel- Of _course_ the ex-angel knew, but it was obvious he was beyond caring about what happened to him…but that didn't mean that Dean had to be. "So maybe I'll just take my doubts over to them," he growled at the dick who stood in front of him and made as if to do so.

"Okay- whoa, whoa, whoa, wait." Future him held out a hand haltingly. "Take a look around you, man. This place should be white-hot with Croats." _Croats_. Dean gritted his teeth at the euphemism and because as much as he wanted to think that there was nothing he and this other version of him held in common, his mind was running smoothly down a single track of realization.

"They cleared a path for us." His brow wrinkled. "Which means that this is-"

"-is a trap, exactly."

_Then…what the hell?_ Dean was lost, and he wondered if it was because the entire fast-forwarding into the future deal had scrambled his brains or if the most basic rules of strategy and survival had changed along with everything else. "Which means we can't go through the front," he concluded aloud slowly, still not following.

"We're not," Future him said simply, voice lowered. His eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch as he inclined his head slightly at the small group a little ways away. "_They_ are."

_Jesus fucking Christ._

"They're the decoys," the heartless bastard wearing his face said casually, in the same tone one would use when describing what was for dinner or remarking upon how nice it was outside. "You and me, we're going in through the back."

Dean took a moment to collect himself- even if his mouth was still wide open, even if his mind was spinning around as crazily as one of those twirling teacups at county fairs, even if his eyes were blinking at about the same rate and his hands were itching to make his future self eat those words. _Not going to happen, not going to happen, NOT going to happen_- His voice was calm, a lot calmer than he would've expected it to sound in his ears. "You mean you're gonna feed your friends into a meat grinder?" A beat passed, and the words dropped in a disbelieving whisper. "Cas, too?"

Future him's eyes dropped at the name, but the guilty gesture did nothing to placate the unnamed mixture of something between disgust, horror, and astonishment making bile rise up in the back of Dean's throat. "You wanna use their _deaths_ as a diversion?" There was no response and he shook his head, speechless and incredulous. "Oh man, something is _broken_ in you."

The shamefaced yet less than remorseful gaze strayed to the side and Dean knew at that instant that this wasn't him; surely he'd been whisked away to an alternate reality instead of merely the future because this man standing before him with an empty hole where his heart should be could _never_ be him- it was his father. It was John Winchester; the absent father, the deadly hunter and the cruelly efficient son of a bitch who didn't know what friends were, who didn't give a care about anything else but the mission and if his sons grew up melting silver down into bullets instead of opening presents on the holidays, what did it matter?

Dean idolized his father, envied the man's attention and approval, practically _worshiped_ him- and now he finally saw himself the closest to John as he would ever be, and he wanted nothing more than to run as fast and as far as he could from this stranger. "You're making decisions I would never make," he hissed out bitterly, mind waging war over whether to feel more anger or pity for his future self, and the rage won out. "I would **never** sacrifice my friends-"

"You're right," Future him cut in; eyes steely, voice tight. "_You _wouldn't." He leaned forward, mien hard and accusatory. "It's one of the main reasons we're in this mess, actually."

_Don't try to guilt trip me you cold, callous, piece of shit_. "You're willing to use the people who count on you, who trust you, as _cannon fodder_?" Dean ground out between gritted teeth. _Who died and made you God? _"You heartless son of a bitch; who the HELL are you?"

"I'm the man who's going to kill the Devil, and save the world."

The statement would've been hilarious-sounding given any other context, but right now, it wasn't. Well, it was still a little funny, but in a really sad and pathetic sort of way and Dean clamped his jaw shut so tightly it was a wonder he was still able to speak. "No. Not like this, you're not." _Not if I can help it._

Future him smirked. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah-"

The last stupid thought that entered his mind before the blackness overtook him was that in the future, even the grass rushing up to meet his face and fill his mouth tasted like gunpowder and death.

* * *

_Whatever you do, you will always end up here._

His legs were pumping so fast and so hard that it felt like he was doing more than running away from the back entrance where his future self's body lay with a broken neck, where he'd come face to face with the evilest supernatural son of a bitch in his little brother's skin, Lucifer's words still ringing in his ears. His shoulder rammed into the door hanging on its rusted hinges, panic and desperation mounting at utter silence that rent the air with its terrible nothingness instead of gunfire.

_Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up here._

He took the stairs two at a time, three at a time, almost tripping over the ledges and his own two feet in his haste to get to the second floor and his heart was banging against his ribs so hard that it felt like the organ was trying to beat his way _out _of his chest; his lungs were on fire as he reached the top of the landing and hurled himself around the corner-

_I win…so I win._

"_No."_

The horrified whisper dropped from his lips and Dean's knees grew weak and they buckled, honest to God _buckled_ as he stared at the massacre, at the friggin' graveyard in which every single corpse had been unearthed. His heart dropped lower than the pit of his stomach at the countless bullet-ridden carcasses passing by once his feet decided to uproot themselves from the bloodstained concrete and move; it dropped down to his freakin' knees when he stumbled upon Reesa, face cloven completely in half and one dark eye staring up blankly at the ceiling, chest ripped open- as in, torn apart. With fingers.

He turned away from the macabre sight of the woman who, earlier, still had both eyes and with whom he- or his future self, who as of right now was also quickly turning cold and stiff- apparently had connection, throat tight and burning with anger of her untimely demise, but also with fear at what state he would find Castiel in…if he found the ex-angel at all. _C'mon Cas; where the hell are you? _

Lucifer might've hijacked Sam already and the angels might've already bailed, Gabriel might've already died and he himself actually already _was_ dead- but Dean was not going to let that bastard (_which one, future me or Lucifer?_) get Cas, he was so not going to let the angel die in vain; he was going to change things and for one-

A noise sounded out up ahead and Dean froze, suddenly realizing that he was standing amongst Croatoan-infected bodies and the memories of countless low-grade zombie flicks made him all too aware that he was without a weapon and for some reason, still walking closer to the sporadic strange sound that came and went like a fuzzy radio signal-

_SHIT! _He wouldn't have dropped to down faster than if someone had taken out both his kneecaps with a shotgun and yet his urgency was belied by the fact that he had no idea what to do once hovering over Castiel's bloody, twitching, _beat to hell_ body. "Cas?" The hunter croaked out cautiously, reaching out hesitantly because he didn't know if this was a manifestation of the other submitting to the influence of the Croatoan virus and not know what to do if Castiel suddenly lunged upwards, intent on tearing his throat out. The ex-angel didn't seem capable of doing anything of the sort though, and as Dean's eyes took in the injuries, the mantra of obscenities resumed within his mind. _Holy shit goddamn all these fucking bastards to hell-_

Castiel lay crumpled on one side, one arm twisted at a completely unnatural angle and pinned underneath his body; the fingers of his other hand were still curled tightly around a bloody eight-inch long carving knife and Dean felt a short-lived, odd sense of pride at seeing that Castiel had given the bastards hell before going down. Blood oozed from an indiscernible head wound and caked in his dark hair, collecting in a small pool against his downturned face and Dean's hand found a place falling onto the other's shoulder, rolling Castiel over onto his back- and the elder Winchester swore that his heart stopped.

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no…" He whispered again and again as he pulled the limp body into his lap, mindlessly repeating the word all the while as if doing so would somehow miraculously sew up the skin and flesh along Castiel's entire left side to hide the torn muscle and white of curved bone, as if it could somehow close up the three- no wait, the _six_ bullet holes in the bleeding frame (and those were only the ones a quick once-over amounted up to), or help his quickly shucked jacket keep Castiel's blood and guts from escaping out of the flaps of skin surrounding the jagged open wound in his abdomen. _Oh God, please. Not like this. Please._

Suddenly Castiel's body arched upwards with the same rasping, gurgling sound Dean had heard just moment's prior and that he now realized as the sound of someone trying to breathe with lungs half-filled with their own blood when the other began to struggle, Dean tried to grapple with him, not wanting Castiel to aggravate his injuries further. "Cas! Cas, hey, it's me!"

Castiel's eyes were rolling around frantically in their sockets, filled with pain and the look of a hunted animal. His arm- the one that wasn't hanging uselessly out of its socket, but the one that had loose ribbons of skin swinging about like freakin' drapery- flailed wildly. Dean caught the swinging fist and without quite thinking about it, pressed the bending fingers and bleeding palm under the sleeve of his t-shirt and against the handprint-shaped scar tissue.

It was like someone had turned an on/off switch on Castiel's nervous system. The ex-angel went so still that Dean would've started panicking and rushing to press fingers against his jugular had not Castiel's fingers been flexing against his bicep, lungs still rattling sickly as crimson-slick palm rotating slightly to reposition fully against the brand as if seeking to settle against the scar like it belonged there- because in a way, it _did._

The fingers were sliding away from his arm then, instead fisting in the fabric of his shirt and Dean looked down to see sapphire eyes fixing him in an intense stare, pain swirling in their depths but more lucid than they'd been in a long time. Castiel was opening his mouth to speak, but all that came about from his efforts was a bloody frothing mess and his face tightened in agony; crimson sputtered out of his mouth. "_Dee-"_

"It's me, Cas," The elder Winchester said hurriedly to shush him, voice thick with emotion. "It's alright; it's Dean. You're gonna be alright." His arm encircled the other's back as Castiel shook uncontrollably, cradling the broken, hurting body to his chest and not caring in the least bit as blood that wasn't his painted his entire front a deep red. "C'mon Cas, it's okay. I'm here."

Not that it did any good or make any difference, and both of them knew it. Castiel had already lost too much blood and from the tremors that wracked his frame, Dean could tell that he was going into trauma-induced shock. The ex-angel's head laid heavily against his chest and his trembling fingers were still clutched in the fabric of Dean's shirt and not letting go, and hot moisture stung the hunter's eyes; he was having trouble breathing himself; it seemed like the huge obstruction in his throat wasn't letting in any oxygen and was instead making the great Dean Winchester want to bow his head and cry like a fucking baby because his first (and last) _real_ friend that actually meant something to him was dying right here, right now in his arms.

"_The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."_

Castiel stopped shaking and instantly stilled at the beginning of the familiar psalm, chest still heaving unevenly and making the terrible sound of malfunctioning suction tube.

"He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside still waters_…_" The words tumbled clumsily from Dean's lips and it was a strange wonder that he even remembered them. There might not have been anything he could do to help take away the physical pain, but he was going to do everything he could to make up for what the him of the future had done for five years in tearing apart all that was Castiel and scattering the pieces to the winds; this was the least he could do. "He restores my soul_." _

The other's face was still turned toward him and though Dean's shirt and his jeans were already soaked through with blood, he felt hot warmth against his chest and his throat constricted so tightly that his voice almost faltered as the hunter realized that Castiel was crying. "_He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake." _

"Even though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death_-" _Here, Castiel's entire body went into a spasm and Dean tightened his arm around him, voice shaking as the blood in Castiel's lungs rattled once, and then again with a note of finality. "I will fear no evil, for you are with me_…" _The fingers clutching at his shirt loosened and slackened completely. "Your rod and your staff,"Dean's breath hitched and he stumbled upon the next words as Castiel's hand fell limply to the ground- "They comfort me."

Dean's chest was being squeezed in a vise and his eyes blurred, he was officially choking out the words now as the tears finally slipped past their floodgates. "You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows…" The hunter hugged Castiel's lifeless frame closer, bending his head and pressing his forehead to the other's, his tears cutting tracks through the dirt and grime and blood on the deceased's face; his voice was barely audible now. "_Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever._"

There was no explosion of light, no wings being burned into the ground or opening up of the sky for Creation to weep, because no one in Heaven cared. As Dean knelt there, cradling the body of his angel, he heard a step behind him and a voice that he really didn't want to hear-

"Amen."

The tone was familiar, satisfied, _mocking_. Unparalleled rage built up in Dean's chest and he whirled around-

_A/N: Um…yeah. That's all I have to say right now. *runs and hides* _


	4. Epilogue

_A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews! And I'm happy that I was able to translate just a small bit of the emotion the episode made me feel into something for all of you to read. Enjoy the chapter!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

Apparently, the Apocalypse really hadn't done much to dampen this particular individual's style and indeed, Hell's second prince looked no different than the first time Dean had laid eyes on him- slick Russian calf shoes, thin blue pinstriped Yves St. Laurent suit, high Irish cheekbones complemented by eyes of jade and the same self-assured, arrogant shit-eating grin that made the elder Winchester want to carve off his face. But doing so would mean relinquishing the body he held in his arms so Dean merely clutched Castiel's limp frame closer, hate streaming through his veins like liquid fire.

"Dean Winchester," the demon drawled as he walked across the length of the room, effortlessly picking his way through the carnage. "Fancy meeting you again. What's it been, all of five years?" Belial smirked as he came to a stop not ten feet away. "And how have you been, old sport?"

"You just keep your distance, you sick bastard," Dean managed to spit out. He rounded his shoulders and twisted his torso slightly, shielding his burden from Belial's appraising eyes, one hand falling away from supporting the back of the heavy head to grope blindly at the cold concrete for a weapon, any weapon- even though he knew it would be of no use on Lucifer's second in command. "You can't have him."

Cas had spent his entire life dodging this demon and Dean wasn't about to let the pervert claim Castiel's body as a friggin' trophy now. This was the least he could do, and it seemed like a pretty piss poor repayment for everything the angel had done for him, what with the whole rebelling against Heaven and losing his brothers and getting kicked out of his home deal- and to gain what in return? He was dead because of Dean, and it didn't matter that it was the heartless dick the elder Winchester was supposed to turn into who'd sent him to his death, he was going to take care of Cas because no one had seen to such a task for five years and _this _was the result.

Belial's eyebrows arched and he let out a distinguished chuckle; half in pity and the other in condescension. "Have him?" He repeated, walking even closer and glancing disinterestedly down at the shell that once housed the angel known as Castiel, that once was the most selfless and stupidly loyal son of a bitch Dean had ever met, that once used to be Gabriel's beloved little brother and the object of the lord of lust's twisted fantasies. "Oh no, my dear boy," he smiled congenially, flashing a set of perfectly straight pearly whites and something white-hot coiled dangerously in Dean's chest. "I have no use for spoiled leftovers."

The something twisting like a corkscrew in the elder Winchester's heart erupted in a burst of anger at the offhanded comment and as Belial extended a foot to prod carelessly at Castiel's frame, he jerked away with a snarl- "_Don't you __**touch**__ him_!"

The demon was laughing; a cruel curl of his lip. "And why would I want to do that? I told you I have no use for that pestilence-ridden piece of meat." He shrugged casually then grinned, an animalistic arrangement of his vessel's face. "After all, I'll be having so much more fun with his soul downstairs."

_What?_ Dean felt like he'd been sucker punched right in the gut and his mouth opened and closed one or twice before his vocal cords unstuck themselves from the sides of his windpipe and even then, the protest that flew past his lips was a mere whisper. "_Bullshit_." Demon and hunter stared each other down for a moment and Dean could feel the rage slowly being swallowed up by the emerging despair that twined its steely fingers around his lungs. "You're lying."

"Because demons always lie, no?" Belial chuckled and shook his head as if pitying the human's utter lack of brains. "What would I have to gain from lying to you Dean, hmm?" Long fingers slipped into the suit's inner pocket and produced a cigarette; the demon snapped his fingers and a candle's flame flared up out of his index finger. "Let's see. The angels are gone…" He inhaled deeply, starting to walk in a slow circle around the kneeling hunter. "Your body is out back, succumbing to rigor mortis..." An slowly exhale clouded Dean's eyes with smoke, but the hard glints of emerald never left the circling demon, and neither did his grip on the dead weight he held loosen. "And your pathetic little resistance efforts have all but been quashed into the dust."

"So you're here to gloat."

The demon took another drag on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the air through pursed lips. "In a manner of speaking, yes." He sighed and glanced down again with disinterest. "Although I see that I have encountered a less than captivated audience…" A nefarious light lit up his features. "But that can be changed." Dean's eyes widened and though he knew what was about to happen (and in fact this move was kind of getting old; couldn't they think of anything new over the course of five years?) it didn't make it any less painful as he was slammed against the adjacent wall, as the breath was ripped from his lungs and as Castiel was ripped away from the hunter's protective grasp. _Son of a-_

"I must say, I am somewhat put out because of you, Dean," Belial chided like a disapproving father as the hunter struggled against the telekinetic hold. He waved a hand and sat down comfortably in the leather armchair that'd appeared out of nowhere, feet coming to rest on the curve of Castiel's back. Dean stiffened at the action and raised eyes burning with murderous intent, jerking uselessly against the demon's power. The response was a bemused eyebrow arch and another long exhalation of smoke. "And yet at the same time I am immensely pleased- because honestly? I could not have broken dear little Cas any more efficiently than you did."

The words had the same effect upon the hunter's conscience as salt in an open wound; twice as corrosive and ten times as painful, because there was no protest Dean could offer in defense of his future self's actions. Had he the ability to speak, there wouldn't have been anything to say because for once, the lord of lies was speaking nothing but the truth. _And that's the damn misery of it._

"Of course, I had hoped to be the one to crumble his will, to shatter his seemingly insurmountable faith, to drain away the near-endless supply of hope swimming in those big, pretty eyes…" Using the toe of his shoe, Belial nudged at the body until it lay flat on its back and he leaned forward, intently studying the features that had not been peaceful in the final moments before death, but were still contorted in inexpressible pain, even after the cessation of life. "But lo and behold you did all three without even so much as having to break a sweat." Switching the cigarette to the other hand, he reached into his left breast pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief that had been carefully folded into quarters and glanced up at Dean with a knowing smirk. "I knew there was a reason Alastair deemed you his favorite, the old sod. But who knew you'd be so skilled as to know how to use and abuse an angel?"

"And now his soul's stretched out upon the rack down in the bowels of Hell, just _ripe_ for the taking," Belial murmured thoughtfully as he stroked the white silk over the contours of Castiel's face, along the jagged lacerations and through the tearstains, dying the cloth a crimson red. "_**Mine**_, forevermore." The demon licked his lips lasciviously at the mere thought; a chill ran down Dean's spine and his mind raced because it wasn't true; the son of a bitch was bluffing- it _couldn't_ be true; even though the angels were dicks, there was no way they'd let one of their own-

…_oh __**hell**__ no._

"Oh yes," Belial smirked, tucking the now-bloodied handkerchief away into his pocket with a flourish. He stood fluidly, gracefully and nodded down at Castiel's body. "Fallen angels don't get to fly back upstairs after they lose their wings. Pearly gates are shut to them; the only way to go…" He paused, taking another drag on the cigarette, "is _down _into the Pit. And you know who ensured Castiel's one-way ticket there?"

"Fuck you," Dean finally managed to choke out, voice shaking like an eighteen year old boy trying to get lucky on his prom night and Belial laughed, flicking cigarette ash down onto the blood spattered floor beneath his feet.

"Yes, well thank you, old sport." The demon said, stepping down upon the wrist of Castiel's broken arm with blasé apathy and rolling the joint against the concrete until the stiffening fingers loosened their clutch upon something that lay in the deceased's palm, an object that he'd been clinging onto in his final moments- "Here, a token of my appreciation."

Just like that then, the demon was gone and Dean fell to his hands and knees, hardly wincing at the twin spokes of pain that instantly flared up his limbs as he crawled over to where the angel lay, grasping the small amulet with shaking fingers. _Cas, you stupid bastard...you stupid, __**stupid**__ undyingly loyal son of a bitch. _The tears came again, hot and unyielding but he could still see the black oxfords that moved into his line of vision and Dean raised his head to feel the press of two fingers against his forehead-

* * *

"_The time for tricks is over. Give yourself to Michael and we can strike…before Lucifer gets to Sam. Before billions die. Before you condemn Castiel to his death and an eternity in Hell."_

Zachariah was one fat, ugly son of a bitch, but Dean had to admit, the dick sure knew how to hit below the belt, where to hit to make it hurt the most, and was intimidating in his own right. The hunter's feet had indeed been doing a slow few steps backwards when the portly angel advanced with a nasty scowl and threat of teaching him a lesson-

-when he found himself standing on the side of a road, breath fogging up in the chilly air. _What the hell?_ There was only one conclusion, one answer; the name floated to the forefront of his consciousness and, hardly daring to hope, Dean pivoted around to see the familiar dark blue tie, the same stupid beige trench coat and the sapphire eyes that pierced his soul through and through, holding all hope and dumb blind faith and _everything_ that made Castiel who he was- and Dean wanted to bawl (again), and this time with relief. "That was pretty nice timing, Cas," he breathed instead, trying to believe that the angel was really here and had just saved his ass. _Again_.

"We had an appointment," Castiel replied with a small, barely noticeable smile- but it was so different from the hollow little laugh of bitterness and near-hysteria future Castiel had voiced and it was just so _like_ how the holy tax accountant always spoke that even though Dean never noticed it before, he was sure taking it into account now as the blend of familiarity and sadness and sheer dumb joy rushed through his veins.

He stepped forward and his hand found the comfortingly solidness of Castiel's shoulder, steady and reassuring and it was almost a physical release at not feeling Castiel's frame shaking uncontrollably with gut-wrenching sobs or having his fingers find a hole where flesh and skin should've been, so much so that Dean didn't stop to think- simply flung both arms around the angel's back and pulled him into a fierce, tight hug.

Castiel went awkwardly stiff for a moment, shoulders and spine snapping as tight as a board and Dean was starting to wonder if it had been an epically bad idea to initiate such an act, when suddenly the angel exhaled slowly, tension slipping away from his frame and relaxed into the supportive embrace, his own arms rising to rest against Dean's back. "Dean?" the angel asked quietly and the hunter pulled back, eyes searching the other's face, hand still gripping his shoulder firmly as a constant reassurance that yes, Castiel was still here. _Cas_ was still here.

"Drugs are bad for you, okay?" He blurted out stupidly, and then the words tumbled out in a rush like water gushing out of a broken dam without a filter. "So are booze and women- well women aren't _bad_, but easy women are- and all three of them together, they're just- you don't wanna be getting STDs while the Apocalypse is-"

"Dean," Castiel began, a slight frown furrowing his brow.

"And you've gotta promise me something Cas, promise me that you'll call me out when I'm acting like a selfish bastard-"

"Dean-"

"'Cause I'm not gonna let that happen and you- just- don't ever change, Cas; don't ever become like me because I'm really not that great of a role model-"

"_Dean._" The hunter stopped at the quiet insistence in the angel's voice and fell silent as probing sapphire eyes searched his, concerned and not a little bit worried. "What did Zachariah do to you?"

And that was just so like Castiel, to be worried for his sake and to give up everything for him, to rebel against Heaven because he said so, to stare at him with that stupid head tilt…_Cas, promise me that you won't ever change._ "Showed me the future," Dean muttered faintly, and the mere onslaught of memories forced him to drop his hand and turn away.

"It was…it was bad, Cas." He swallowed hard, throat constricting tightly. "The angels had left, everything had gone to hell and the demons were using the Croatoan virus to destroy the world; I was a dick and you-" His eyes were burning, and the words didn't want to leave his mouth, but he forced them out anyway. "You had no more hope left, you had no more faith and you didn't care anymore; you'd given up searching for God and you _let_ me send you to your death, you-" From behind him, he heard nothing but a sharp inhale and Dean squeezed his eyes shut, hands curling into fists. "You were _broken_, Cas." _And it was I who broke you._

There was a step behind him and then Castiel's hand fell upon his shoulder, like the angel had done nearly a year ago after Dean had seen the choices and decisions of his parents in the past- a gesture of comfort, of reassurance, of care and faith and _trust_- He turned to see the angel fixing him with a firm and unwavering gaze. "In my Father's absence, I will always have faith in you, Dean. I would follow you until the end."

_I know you will, Cas._ _And that's why I swear I won't let it all come to that end. _

_A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please drop a review! _


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